Mary Margaret is instituting new holiday rules.
She is done; her give-a-damn is good and damn busted. Her email follows:
To people I can’t stand but tolerate family and friends:
I know you believe staying up until the wee hours of the morning preparing holiday meals for your enjoyment gives me pleasure. Well, you are crazy as hell couldn’t be more wrong.
I have concealed my true feelings for too long. The plain truth is on most holidays I feel like pure crap, the walking dead. I ask you, what kind of woman with half a brain today enjoys shopping for food, and spending hour upon hour in the kitchen chopping, stirring, and baking.
To the troglodyte family member who presented me with the five pound suckling pig, as a gift, guess where I ‘d like to stick the pig (at the risk of appearing unappreciative) I am not so naive as to believe this was a gift intended for me as much as it was a treat for you. A heartfelt gift from you would be for you to move to another continent to bring a single rose.
After the meal, there is none of the Norman Rockwellian bonding while clearing the table, loading the dishwasher and putting the table linens in the washing machine. Everyone scatters like dingos after the meal, leaving more hours of clean up for me.
You mistakenly assume cooking is my hobby. It is not a hobby; drinking reading is a hobby. Cooking ranks somewhere up there with cleaning the bathroom. I cook every single day, at least twice a day. I overheard that nitwit Shirley, say my holiday dinner is a labor of love. The only labor I’d love would be driving myself to a spa day alone, with some super hunky a masseuse who is mute.
I am more than a kitchen drudge. I’m turning a new page. My image is long overdue for an upgrade. Next year, feel free to have fries with your meal because I am going on a cruise – ALONE.
Note: First published Januarry 2014